Kashmir Delirium

Oh People Of Earth! Thankful are we,
For each act of benevolence shown to us.
Your gilded sweet words describing,
The beauty of Kasmir, land and people.

Mention in books and talks of it's riches,
Naming it the Sweet Paradise Of Earth.
The Lord has been bountiful to Kashmir,
Treasure of resources in every sphere.

To elevate each aspect, our wish for life,
As every acre of this land is worth millions.
Full of treasures and recreational value,
Forestry with grandeur and silvery rivers.

The outside world's view is so limited,
Simple folks living in the lap of rich bounty.
Mentioned in world forums and organizations,
But what of the goal of giving us freedom?

What has The UN established in our name?
To measure the pain and anguish we bear,
At the hands, of our supposed benefactors.
The saviours who has us fractured.

But in reality they train their enforcers,
In the art of creating oceans of tears.
The red blood now hidden in camouflage,
The spent shells now gathered and hidden.

The leaders we are told to elect in electoral shams,
Run publicity kiosks and swell friend lists.
Joint conferences to address personal interests
Dialogues that never address the root issues.

Just the formalities and no sympathy,
For the ones burnt in cruel sadistic reprisals.
The hypocrisy continues deliriously unabated,
More augmentation of the security forces.

For a first hand view of deep hypocrisy,
Walk this land, you know as beautiful.
Religious leaders will teach you  political artistry,
Sermons full of ambiguity and guile.

Waywardness and narrow mindedness on display,
Political apologists give great lessons.
Religion and religious ethnicity are tools,
That keep minds and bodies in total check.

Gamesmanship by leaders is the rule of thumb,
As promises are forgotten once office is obtained.
When writing of this succulent beautiful land,
Write of the air, pregnant with sadistic practices.

This land is being stripped of worldly treasures,
And the greatest treasure is mistreated daily.
The best of nation is the inhabitants,
Ignored are the real gems of this beautiful paradise.

we met in Mexico,
slept rough in the back;
the seats folded down levelled out
and tacked down with two springs

we went by cities
not knowing their names;
stopped at payphone kiosks
shamed our pasts with left messages on answering machines

we stopped at toll booths,
paid for more road to play on,
to drive over smooth,
to cross another border before the noon

we deciphered restaurant menus,
ate with fingers crossed and hoped
the chicken was just that,
left a tip lost in another used ash tray

we wore sun cream
to screen us against the rays
and the glare reflecting
off the mineral water, natural bays

we walked up to bars
asked for drinks in cold bottles,
sipped and supped until kisses rolled out,
left holding hands like mannequin models

we kept the trip a secret,
kept it secure between you and me
and the folds in the bed sheets,
we only exist in hotel cheap suites.

Unchained day beneath dumpling clouds in a baby boy broth
I tumble from the snake's mouth into the belly of the bullfrog
kicking across the river in fits and starts of sloshing and falling
great mirror arms reach imploring
asking the sky to see their brilliance
as steel-grey bracelets encircle one wrist and
then another
and skyward we turn
and vomited unceremoniously from the bullfrog's mouth
I slog easterly through the setting concrete of the new-fettered day
kicking across the avenues in fits and starts of staring and falling
shiny electronic arms reach imploring and
ask the stars to hear the cries
as invisible chokers encircle one's throat and
then nothing
and skyward we turn
and jostled and sweating as fresh popcorn into the gluttonous hall
I ride the current past the kiosks and shuttered kitchens of boutique cafes
kicking down the rapids in fits and starts of surfacing and falling
a majestic and world-weary arm reaches defiantly and
shakes a fist forever at one moment and
then knows
and northward we turn
and
     the girl shared my Luna bar
and
     the phones were passed around
and
     the woman had no shoes
and
     the conductor took no tickets
and
     the women shared their seat
and
     the man gave her cab fare
and
     the woman went home with no purse, no keys, no shoes
and
     the girl went back to Buffalo
and
     still we turn
and
     still we turn
and
our shackled arms raised against the sword reaches
                                                                                             necessarily and
blocks the blow as if we were one arm and
then holds
and
     still we turn

as we run over the limits
of speed and slumber
where technology beats tradition
hands down
and free....
eyes-stuck...
heads-bowed.....ears-plugged,
fingers walking over screens
and oceans
between heartbeats

tweets stomping like clydesdales
over tradition,
kicking phone booths, kiosks
and cubicles
to the curb
with todays news prints
rendered extinct by noon
yesterday

if you paused...

for the cause
of a caffeine boost
or to order chinese take-out,
you missed 10,000 updates

and between styrofoam  sips
and chopsticks clutching
greased chicken strips
you play ketchup

but catch only
white-collar stains
and steamed rice grains
on your laptop

in your haste
and compulsive
obsession
to keep pace with
the text-generation

when you could've
been flipping through the
times back in '89

but that would make you
a dinosaur

~ P
(7/27/2013)

Top hat and tails.

Fire and ice and bison graze the land,
man's hand desiring more and more until there is no more to feed,and at such speed and still we need that more than more, so dig down deep into the core of where we live,
we give ourselves an even chance when chancing fate but fate gives us a passing look as if to say,'*******,you do what you do and expect so much,to touch the stars,dig up Mars and plunder planets'
I wonder such as gannets fly across the worn out pillaged sky where aeroplanes shave micro lines across the sheets of landing times.
It's fire and ice and desert scrub, manufacturing gin in the old bathtub and guv'nor can you spare a time when if you ever spared a dime for beggars on the city street who graze the dog ends at their feet and look in kiosks for lost coins.

It's the road we're on,no going back now,we've ******* the world and have to live somehow with ******* crops ,unfertile ground,the world keeps spinning round and round,a crazy top,can't someone please just make it stop.

And then, when men become cave dwellers
why do we expect the fellers (sic)
to do or not become much more than what the modern man once saw,
we're in the spin
we cant begin again
can't beat the acid rain
just relax and revel
in the pain.

You are a brilliant patchwork of people
wearing their imperfections with pride
not ashamed to be different

Like a jagged concrete and glass tiara
surrounding an emerald heart
you are both lush and cold in synch

At once soothing and stimulating
is the rhythmic rocking of your subways
punctuated by the occasional discordant screech of metal on metal.

You are an assault of sight, smell, and sound on the senses,
each vying to be noticed by indifferent passers-by
artful store windows
pungent aromas from curb-side kiosks
and rap, rock, or classical
as performed by wandering minstrels

Where else can individuality be noticed
among the teeming masses
or the lofty and lowly stand side by side
without thought of social status?

Where else can one get lost in the crowd
yet still be an integral part of the whole
or be down
then uplifted by the energy of the streets?

New York City
you are where the impossible becomes inevitable
and incongruent parts
come together in a symphony of humanity and culture.

New York City
you inspire both love and hate
but never indifference!

I'm in the white city.
A dense fog
Disintegrates all my hopes.
There are people dreaming
Of nonexistent worlds,
There are disoriented people
Walking on the terminal's sidewalk.
There are lights turning on and off so erratically
In this white city.
There are hidden screams in the night
Covered by the heavy rain sounds,
That rain falling continuously
And monotonously.
In this white city,
The victims
Don't understand that they are victims yet.
There are flowers,
There are fast food kiosks,
There are botanical gardens
With beautiful exotic trees,
And there are horror movies in the theaters.
As shadows emerging from the fog
Are the lost steps.
There are steps searching each other,
And there are steps that are separated forever.
The rain's sounds
Vibrate the eye of the windows,
Vibrate the burial stones,
Vibrate the dreams,
Those dreams
About better days.
Apparently,
Someone screams
In the white mist of the night.

Maybe he's the victim of an aggression,
Or maybe he's someone, who has lost his love.
Maybe it's just an echo...
I'm in the white city
And I'm searching for you in the darkness....

I take the shortest path imaginable to be among stars lining meticulously staked kiosks

beaming like the sun's gentle rays at dawn in autumn

mid-slumber, we float
skin colliding and causing ripples like pebbles in a stream

the noise he makes at 3 AM send a shock through my tattered and fragile skeleton

stopping short below my waist
where i start questioning my beauty because society hates an un-perfect anatomy
somehow that's your favorite place

early spring morning eyes that could sedate the wildest stallion

lips and teeth
so familiar

for minutes we've sat in silence with our limbs tangled

I've been waiting so long

the separate paths we crossed are conjoined at fingertips and hips

walk with me until the sun is barely peaking out

we're spilling out like whiskey on a hardwood floor

how are we still so full?

In a Victorian train station,
Amonsgt a plowed tile floor
Of long brown benches,
I sat: a brass statue.

I stood in the waiting room
Watching the travelers scurry
About, keeping up in their own
Little rat race.

They would walk around
Through the rows of benches,
Looking at me, or the windows,
Or the clocks.

I would sit in my space amongst
The benches, in my shaft of light
That came down from the arches
In the ceiling, thinking I was content.

Minutes would turn to hours,
Hours to days, days to seasons
Time after time. And then --
You came.

You were so like me: an
Almost brass statue; a not-once
Person, gilded over in a
Seemingly perfect pose.

They sat you right next to
Me; we were like two sides
Of an old coin, spinning in
An empty space of the station.

Your silence was plenty for me.
I no longer looked at the
Scurriers and travelers, but
Instead on you, us, together.

In all the room in a vast station
I was fortunate enough to
Have you placed perfectly
Next to me. Me.

But it wasn't to last. The men
Came to haul to around: to
Kiosks and platforms and
Other waiting areas.

Then. . . I became the fidgeter.
The seasons broke down, to days
Minutes seconds moments,
Moments without you.

And when you came around
Again we both delighted in the
Sunlight through the arches and
Each others inevitable silence.

And when the station closed,
You never had to move again.
There was no where left to move you,
No more emptiness to fill.

So they set us in a park -- by black
Benches with pigeons instead of
Trains. Together we got to watch
The minutes turn to days, and in

Turn seasons.
I never waited again.

that moves from its mooring: it was from interstice
          to intersection somewhere in Poblacion.
          I was once there, looking for loose change beside
          the market. Quickly I began as though an impression
          was made past the kiosks dense with the matrimony
          of the tabloids and print: its dearth on the streets
          of Plaridel. Mud caked at the grey backs of gutters,
          a spectacle
                                              of leaves on the ground like deft
          hands place them there for empires.

         the first that I touched: wind,
         last: your face, wind was it only that you and I were
                          never off-tangent, always, minus the blindfold,
             seeking endlessly as though things refuse to be found,
              pulsing in the heat of hiding grace.

      
          and goes back to its source: something too splayed for science,
          only too easy with a child’s fancy – chauffeurs playing checkers,
          crossing each other out within conjunctions – much you or I,
          our weights syndetic and our weightlessness, imagined – as if phrasings
          loose like waters from the spigot left open: mother arrives, haranguing.
                       like how it was simple for the wind to remind us fit to this
                 meet constantly receiving your incidence, and my place stilled
                to familiar topographies.

          a window is left open, with its hands in the terminal of silence
                holding light like obdurate stone; the surrender registers
                with grievous art, you curved like a bent question mark,
           or a swollen oblation borrowing its sheen from the ****
                    of bobbing beacons – the candid Manilascape you kept on
                           fevering for              like an open sentence

               only to find its birth.

I was on a freezing
Train platform when
A cursing man approached
Me
His smile already queued up
"Hey man,
I tried to ride the
Train with an old
Ticket"
He turned the ticket
Over and over
In his hand
To accentuate this
Point and continued
"And i have 9 bucks
Could you spot me
For the rest?"

"I have no cash"
I lied
As most do
When confronted for
Money by a stranger

"You don't need cash
You can use cards on
The machines"
He said pointing
Towards the bank
Of awkwardly standing
Ticket kiosks
Our only companions
In the chilly night air

"Nah man, i'm good"
I said

His expression changed
Not to anger but
Disappointment
"Well, thanks anyway"

He walked off cursing
A broken trail of white
Breath twisting dizzyingly
Away from his head

Standing there I felt bad
That I hadn't helped him
He only needed 7 more dollars
And I had six crisp twenties
Folded neatly in my wallet
And two credit cards
Nowhere near maxed out

For some reason
I started to interpret myself
As part of the problem of mass
Apathy amongst men
In turn feeling slimy
Unnatural  

I made a point to lap the
Station multiple times
To find this man and give
Him more than he needed
Not to help him
But to prove to
Myself that I wasn't
A phlegmatic  
******

I caught him inside
With another young man
About my age
With a softer face
Giving him a sandwich
And a few crumpled bills

They traded a few words
And laughed
I returned to my
Perch on the platform
Alone in the
Freezing night air

Later the man came out
Smoking a black and mild
And waited next to me for the
Train

When we got in he only sat
A few seats from me
I saw him take the
Ticket he told me was old
And hand it to the
Attendant
Who punched it and moved
On

Later we made
Accidental eye
Contact down the
Aisle
He queued the same
Smile and turned away
From me

I walked into the door
A writer
Came out a poet, sleeping on the side
I'd pay someone to write down my soul
Burning out, kneeling on the midnight lamp

Burning the oil, writing my life out and away
Shall I walk in again, maybe not but I walk out of life I'm ******* dead
But, the typewriter doesn't change the words
I do, forgetting half the time that the night's right
With that hourly hand, my words live when midnight strikes
Dancing in the dark like a still-born child that don't see, jiving blindly


She lays sleeping on the side, will I stay on your side unwillingly within the crowdy picture that doesn't see you either
Or imagination keeps running away, holds on to the willful calls buying the scenery in the blink of an eye looking for a good girl
He says the midnight burns you before the truth dawns over you

Shining in the crazy echoes of looking back through mirrors in the passion and love we talk about, watching our gay silence simply sitting and staring into kiosks
Lifeless staring into the distance will not get you the vision of peace, or a simple life of kissing the love of your life away

Love you better, if you could murmur a catatonic piano and write the sterling cheque for the wordsmith
I walked into the door, for the sights
As a writer, I told the poet I wait for the words alright

Burning out, kneeling over the midnight lamp waiting to live another through another marriage of words
That's when the words softly echo with the breaths feeling heavier in my blood
Asking for another book, like a divorcee likes a half-written will

Sending the love forward
Paying it back, in the
The way the socialism asked for a corporal
She loved him with a love untoward, that came from America
You can either hurt yourself or burn yourself, find fault with it
But, you will always learn from it, in the bebop that doesn't stop the motion of food and clothes in songs about buildings
Boy's with sobbing looks held by kiosks sending the semaphoring forward, with hope in we weren't going pop our madness during our cherry red wine sedation, holding up ******* and
A flag

i would have never guessed it that Flea would be a Sheffield United supporter, then again who would have thought that Ryan Reynolds would become the owner of Wrexham...

and sometimes: even if you're working an event
and not a spectator you're still like:
**** it, i need to get a t-shirt...

i can't remember the last time i owned something
that did have a tag: made in China...
i still have this shirt from Gap that reads
made in Ireland...
    now i own something that reads: made in Honduras...
the quality on this thing tells me...
if washed properly will last about 20+ years...

when was the last time i saw them?
did they just come out with By the Way?
2002...  so they must have played the London Docklands
Arena circa...
they were great then: but today they were
like the Beatles...
               Flea on par with John Frusciante...
you have to give it bass players that are on par
with guitarists if not somehow surpassing them...

back then at the Docklands... what was it?
12,500 seated and 15,000 in concert mode...
today? my guess is in the range of 70,000+
      they might be getting but that's when people
are at their best... esp. ageing rock stars...
               it's this last push at greatness...
                             i sure as **** wanted to hear
Dani California live...
                  and it wouldn't be me if i wasn't disappointed
at them not playing Warm Tape...

but other things happened...
                  i'm sometimes almost sure that my interactions
with spectators do not go unnoticed by other
spectators or the security team in general...
now... i'm used to hugs... having selfies taken...
but... i truly wasn't read for a guy to walk up
to make: steal my hand... kiss it... hug me and go
on his merry way...
    as if invited the Chillies to London...
oh sure sure... yeah... i organised this event...

but it's not that:
people have been really starved socially after the past
two years... it shows...
   i'm just wondering when all this luvvy-dubby
attitude of the public will return to the old complacent
drunk-rude attitude...
then the post-pandemic honeymoon period
will end... it's bound to happen at some point
with enough people having attended enough
public events like football matches and concerts...
when the security services will return to being
invisible traffic-cone jokes...
                   unless of course it's just me...
i don't see other stewards or security officers
get their hands kissed and get hugs and get asked
for selfies...

then again... i wonder if i've met someone who
read any of my ****** "poems"...
   i look at the viewing counts...
if i managed to pull over 15,000 examples from my
***.. split between several websites...
where on one just one has gained 48.1K traction...
and i add up some of the more popular ones...
i've reached viewership well over 100K...
so i'm thinking... maybe some of these people approach
me like they know me...
     or know of me...

am i being full of myself?
               i'm just not used to strangers kissing my hands...
or playing with my beard...
how much of this is post-pandemic socialisation-starvation
and how much of it inherently authentic
based on the ontology of individuals is:
perhaps... debatable...
nonetheless: Casanova could have boasted about
his adventures in and outside of the bedroom...
i'm hardly hurting anyone's ego by citing how...
how familiar people can become...
   even though they are strangers...
                        let's not get anyone's hopes up...
we're not talking the complications of friendships...
having drinks in a pub... talking about our highs
and lows... it's not about the shallowness of these
interactions... but the immediacy and the fleetingness
of them: the almost democratic nature of them...
"democratic": there's 8 billion examples of man /
woman on this earth... and London can hardly
compete with a small village, with the Archers'
claustrophobia (the Archers'?
   this radio soap-opera on BBC Radio 4...
               in my most low i used to tune in...
    i'm not old enough to tune into BBC Radio 4,
i don't think i'll ever be...
    i tried BBC Radio 3 for a while...
                   i still prefer being my own DJ) -

well... i tried listening to Anderson Paak coming in...
after seeing him live?
i don't think i'll be able to...
     you need to see him... he's a performer...
he's less a recording artist...
                  his recordings are stale compared to his
entertainment qualities...
    part James Brown part: obviously himself...

or anyone not liking what i write can just switch
to something from the poetryfoundation.org,
or the tabloid press...
                    even i think this is mediocre...
i'm less worried about but i was really worried
whether the train strikes would mean that
the transport-chain-lock would work in my favour...
whether i'd get the central line to Newbury Park
on time from Stratford...
whether i'd catch either the 296 or the 66 bus
to Romford and get one of the last three 103 buses
after 12:00am to Chase Cross...

but i just bought a t-shirt from a concert
and put it over my work clothes and walked with
the rest of the fans grinning-like an idiot:
i've been paid... and i saw a band i last saw
back in 2002... and i'm going to see them again tomorrow...

sure... who wouldn't want to be a mysterious
poet who dies at the age of 30
like Kathleen Tankersley Young from Lysol poisoning...
who wouldn't?! the public would archive
two poems by me and i'd be... immortalised...
Bukowski put a nail on the head when he said:
when you write into the thousands...
you realise... that you have written very little...

right now anything to push me sitting up until
2am and getting up at 9am...
drinking whiskey and soothing my legs
from standing up for... however many hours
i stood rooted...
     but i was smarter today...
        i decided to eat something on the shift...
i highly recommend the steak pasties at the London
Stadium... they're only £6 a pop and that's
not overpriced for a London venue...
i would never ingest that free-cheap-*****
sandwiches provided by companies...
mind you... i did manage to "steal" a free bottle
of Fanta from one of the kiosk managers...
          or if you're at Wembley... befriend a Bangladeshi
security guy... or a Somali...
not stereotyping... they can smooth-talk
any member of a kiosk to give you free food...
or rather... the people working in the food kiosks
are probably also Bangladeshi or Somali...
so...                  

          win win...

and of the people you work with... word quickly spreads...
i come in bruised from a bicycle accident...
obviously i had to tell people that "some ******" cut
me off... that's not true...
i was cycling drunk... the last time i ever did that...
i lost control when the road started becoming uneven:
***-hole this swerve that...
it was a spectacular accident of my own making...
i flipped forward across the handlebars...
even if i was wearing a cycling helmet: which i never
have and never will... a beautiful looking
imitation of a Francis Bacon painting...
but today: some guy approached me...
oh... looks like you're healing nicely...

         and i am... it felt so good listening Scar Tissue
live... i'm gently pinching the scab and eating it...
like a dog...
but i was having this conversation with Harini
and about her falling off her electric scooter...
how she would never get back on it...
and i told her: my bicycle was sort of my fault too...
but it's different with bicycles...
so i started telling her about those two glorious
summers when my grandfather was alive
and he'd take me to Pętkowice (Świętokrzyskie Voivodeship,
Ostrowiec County, Poland)
for horse riding...
            oh yeah... i'll never own a car...
i love buses, bicycles and horses too much...
i will never own a flashy car...
so i told her... this mare almost threw me off at
full gallop...
   see... it's different when you have a bicycle
accident and something rather different
when a horse throws you off...
bicycles are dead things... it's up to you to not
be drunk (idiot) and not spotting a ***-hole
early enough...
            but a horse is a living creature and has
its own rules, whims...

i think i'm rekindling sleeping genes in me...
i must have come from a lineage of horse-riders...
after the first lesson
having jumped me and this guy went into
the fields and the forest for a "stroll"...
my god... riding a horse at full gallop...
it's almost a bit like riding a bicycle down a hill...
no... it's not the same...
       sleeping genes of a Mongol? a ***?
                     Winged Hussars?!
who else where the great nations that heavily relied
on horses?!
    i just remember: put right heel pressure
on the horse's torso while pulling at the reins
of the left hand for it to turn left...
and if you want to move the horse to the right...
left heel digging into the torso
and right hand pulling at the reins...
and if you want to gallop?
    both feet dig heels into the torso
  and the reins are tightened...

                    and she looked at me like:
well... i wasn't expecting you to be a type that rode horses...
so much for rock stars... down on the ground
this is probably enough to impress...

i come home i find my maine **** readied for
a nap in my bed... wake up tomorrow...
root myself in... un-root myself...
drink some whiskey... have two days off...
wait for the boiler mechanic come Monday...
then head off to Wembley for the Ed Sheeran gig...
like any modern man i'm addicted
to the urban landscape...
although... i sometimes wish i could live
on the Shetlands... or the Faroe Isles...
be a lighthouse curator...

                               live in a cave: live in a cave:
breathe like a cave when a shout shouted
into it excavates an echo...
           i'm a terrible DJ... second night running
and it's still...
  
i can move mountains
i can work a miracle, work a miracle
ooh, oh, oh, (i'll) keep you like an oath
may nothing but death do us (a)part

she wants to dance like uma thurman...

Hey, teddy
Bear can we friends or eternal flowers in a garden
Blossoming together with passion, talk about the passion
Words endow us, as the lack of them help us understand
Hey skull in the eye of the saint's shadow
Shiny stares, be my companion or femme fatale
I wanna shine without craning my neck in pallid scales
We walked into hamlets, cafe looking for love that was callous
It hides sometimes like a callow canto for you
A bit lost too, I suppose these are the inchoate creepers of fincas
What's the verbal cue when you're so scintillating and coruscating
Scaling forests with your vivid, vivacious looks caressing my hilts
No lie, you look better than a tiagus
A fruit from Cezanne's pears and the road is life
Baring suitcases, and battered too
With your dancing days and cold gaze, warming and thawing my heart out instilling blue

Got me on a leash, my by-lines heralded by the perfunctory hooks
Take me out to the freezing forest in neon lights of colorful minds
Tiagus and meritorious places in your eyes, climb on the grass
Mirror them with your coldness in the heat of your mind, the rogue looking glass
The mirror is beyond false compare if I'm looking through you
Mirror them and I can find myself holding you close, sunglasses with flowery spokes
She bent to tie my laces and dealt the cards too
To my child as we find love, I can tell this how we should write
Or well that's how I learned from ya'
Truth, my contemplations never end if they start with ya'
I tell everyone she is the one, she isn't unctuous or sanctimonious

By shedding our souls and peace requires understanding
Ain't nobody us understands like you, yeah
In the cusp of my childhood and keeping the nightmares at bay tonight
I can finally look at the waning moon come out after the sun dates the light after each stanza
Light of my life and the darkness of frolicking thing dancing on the iridescent shore of the frescoes of lithe la fille plus anime  
Having fun innamorata, or thallasophilia of the hills that have eyes
We can share the peak of the fire, and the icy handshakes are gone
The glaciers are meticulously melting in love
I'm still staring at the puddles

The memory of water, fuliginous orchards set ablaze
What are you waiting for, get in first with a blazing letter
Style can be introduced, and that's how I understand vermillion art
Hold you tight in my daydreams and the fire of my likeness
I love the heat of chartreuse and a campfire near a distant river of reflected dreams

Much better, if I limply came with roses
Hugging you tight in my wounded life
And bare our souls or becoming deeper
We can spend togetherness on this night of scattered starlight

In sudden heaven or sudden bliss, that's immeasurable
Either way life or living, you expand my mind amiss
The fire of my likeness, a visceral starry dynamo of minds
What's my verbal cue, when you're the Goddess of my ****** things

We speak in silence and hear the heartbeat
Silent because we don't deserve each other, probably
Assimilating these feelings is an immaculate conception and form-expression in one
You make me and complete me, halcyon I tell ya'

That's a truth stated in scientific truth with calculated looks
That lie like the fires in my coal eyes, although Illmatic eyes are brown stuck in moral kiosks of the midnight soul
The body that walks under cloudless climes
The midnight chimes with the starry skies perturbed
Le écrié drama pensée suiva
Winking at us, or we look at them once in while in emollient Earth

I made you.
Your intricacies are my whims
I was the woman bent over a *** on a gas stove,
I put in the pepper before the salt.
I left the stock-fish to boil for softness, I threw in the beef late
to save some of its strength

I had a plan and followed it
to make them smile that taste you
How then did you loose it?
My careful sprinkling of salt
The measured bits and pieces that went to make you.
The fire, the pepper, all of the hotness
Why are you so watery you run off?

I wasn't bent over a claypot when i made you
l didn't pinch for resources nor haunt roadside kiosks
I didn't fan the flames with air from my puffed cheeks
Why do I taste this soot in you? This blandness?

You have allowed a sinking, a sinking to the bottom
A slipping of things that should be awakened
Take the great spoon, stir up the low things
Awaken the pepper, agitate the ginger
Light a new fire and let it boil over.

Living in the suburbs has a special charm, especially if you live in one of the quarters of Tbilisi's Varketili district, where the sea is also nearby: tall buildings, scorching heat, and mulberry trees in the yard, whose pungent smell reaches your nostrils.

The noise of the neighborhood, gatherings, conversations around the table, drinking, smoking, hoodies, jeans, sneakers, Adidas—these are what reflect fashion trends, taking their beginnings and energy from the suburbs and sticking around.

Here, you'll encounter Soviet-era kiosks covered in rust. Larger-scale parks and children whose voices color the world, reaching the silent concrete buildings.

The political atmosphere is more superficial; there's not much to capture in photos, but if you head to the sea, a camera will definitely come in handy.

I have an apartment for sale.