her kitchenette
smelled like lust
and strawberries
and sweat

her hair
smelled like trust
and coconuts
and summer air

her hands
looked like daisies
and beaches
and starfish in the sand

her lips
tasted like red wine
and marshmellows
and secrets, slowly slipped

her eyes
looked like diamonds
and oceans
and wide open skies

her love
felt like pennies
and apples
and a beautiful white dove

There’s a giraffe in here, in my house
There’s a giraffe in here, his name’s Strauss
There’s a giraffe in here, watching my TV
There’s a giraffe in here, he's got a key

I think it’s fun to have a crazy friend
I don’t care if we go round the bend

There’s a giraffe in here, in my kitchenette
There’s a giraffe in here, he’s a great pet
There’s a giraffe in here, in my car
There’s a giraffe in here, smoking a cigar

I think it’s fun to throw away my meds
My crazy friend, is in my head

There’s a giraffe in here, in my mind
There’s a giraffe in here, he’s refined
There’s a giraffe in here, in my padded room
There’s a giraffe in here, I assume

I never told you this story:

The story is, when we first me, first falling in love, I had a choice. I was at a party, with my friends, and you texted me. You wanted to get drunk, bring a friend and show off some new guy you met.

And I was talking with a beautiful French girl.

She was impeccable, with long dark hair and she scared many of the guys away with the intensity in her stare. Her accent made every word a masterpiece, and her style strict Parisian. She did it all like we could do it, but she did it differently. And she could dance.

I asked my friend what I should do.

He took a drink and told me “If she comes man, she’ll only want to dance with you.” He said this as he glanced at the beautiful French girl smiling at me, and I smiled back at her. And that sealed the deal in the kitchenette.

So I walked backed to her, and she held out her hand. She pulled me in close, and I could smell her hair. She smiled as she taught me, laughed as I failed, and it took a while to get the hang of it, but I finally prevailed.

And I danced with the French girl.

I ignored your texts, blocked your calls. And it was her that I was texting on my walk home, forgotten about you at a bus stop far from home. It was the feel her of her body against mine I missed, not yours.

And even though I later chose you, I later fell for you, and I later lost you, that night, I chose her. I chose the dream over reality; someone knew over a scene well seen; I chose love, I chose me.

And do I regret that decision?

Well, out of all the decisions I made which lead me to loving you, I have absolutely no regrets in dancing with the beautiful French girl.

Maybe it was a precursor, a sign I should have taken. But to me, it’s just a memory, and a memory I’ll never forget, a memory I'll always have about dancing with the French girl in the downstairs kitchenette.

Dear Poet Friends, the Sphinx remains shrouded in myth, legend, and History. Modern research by archaeologists and Egyptologists have revealed some of its hidden mysteries. My research has resulted in providing you with a short & a balanced view about the Sphinx, keeping in mind the short attention span of my readers. Unfortunately, I am not able to post the Illustrative photographs here which accompanies my Sphinx story. Hope you like this story, thanks, - Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
            
         THE MYSTERY OF THE EGYPTIAN SPHINX

INTRODUCTION
Towering over the Giza plateau facing the rising sun over the
River Nile,
The Sphinx stands defiant for over four millennia, braving the
vagaries of weather and marauding time!
With a lion’s body and a human head the Sphinx remains
shrouded in part myth, part legend, and ancient History.
While the date of its construction, and identity of its face
have intrigued scholars for many centuries.
Today I shall tell you about this monumental and magnificent
structure,
Which stands as an iconic symbol of Egyptian architecture!
Man fears Time since he forever remains as it’s bonded
prisoner in captivity.
However, only few hours of freedom are granted to him during
his earthly sojourn, to live and love life with impunity!
But Time fears the Pyramid and the Sphinx, as they stand
defiant with their raised head;
As miniature symbols of eternity which even Time dreads!

MYTHS AND LEGEND ABOUT THE SPHINX
Many controversies and theories abound as to the identity
of its builders during ancient times.
Some say it was built by the people who came from Plato’s
lost ‘Continent of Atlantis’, prior to the Egyptians, way back
in time!
Others say it was the ancient Zulus who had inhabited the
wet and rainy Giza region with its great lake.
Around 8000 BC, during the close of the Great Ice Age!
But with changing weather pattern the Giza region later became
a desolate and a deserted area.
Yet no records or hieroglyphs survive, to make things clear.
The name ‘Sphinx’ is said to have been given 2000 years later  
by the enterprising Greeks.
Since in Greek Mythology there is a Sphinx, but with a woman’s
face, a lion’s body and with eagle’s wings;
Which guarded the entrance to the ancient Greek City of Thebes.
To the Greeks we owe the ‘Riddle of the Sphinx’ which asked all
passing travelers the following question:
“What is it that has one voice, and walks with four legs in the
morning, with two during the day, and with three in the evening
time?”  - about which those travelers had no notion!
The Sphinx devoured all those who had failed to answer, till the
Greek Oedipus confronted the Sphinx and replied,
That the riddle had described the three stages of a Man’s life.  
Since he crawled on all four as a child, grew up to walk on two
legs.
But during old age used a stick which became his third leg.
Hearing the correct answer the Sphinx is said to have jumped
into an abyss killing itself!

THE  SPHINX PROPER  
Modern Egyptologists generally agree, that the Sphinx had been
carved out from a single mass of limestone mound, -
Which dominated the Giza plateau before 2540 BC.
Built by Pharaoh Kufu’s son Khafre of the Fourth Dynasty.
Khafre was the builder of the second largest pyramid standing
next to his father’s Great Pyramid of Giza.  
While the Sphinx stands on the eastern most boundary of the
Desert Sahara;
Six miles west of Cairo, on the edge of Giza plateau.
It is 240 feet in length and almost 70 feet in height, aligned to
the Pyramid of Khafre behind.
The Sphinx lies on its hunches guarding the vast ‘City of the Dead’.
Where pharaohs mummified bodies lie deep within the pyramids;
To facilitate journey of their soul to gain eternal life and be
resurrected,
To join the Happy Fields of Osiris the Egyptian God of after-life
and death.

Great conquerors like Alexander and Napoleon had stood
dwarfed before the mighty Sphinx.
But to Napoleon we remain grateful for our knowledge of
Egyptian civilisation among other things.
For it was his soldiers who had discovered the Rosetta Stone
in Egypt in 1799, with its  bilingual inscription.
Written in Egyptian hieroglyphs and Coptic Greek, resulting in
the decipherment of the Ancient Egyptian pictorial inscriptions!

EXCAVATIONS AND RESEARCH WORK
The Sphinx had been buried by the shifting sands of the desert
many a time during past centuries.
While periodic restoration work continues to preserve it for
posterity.
American archeologist Mark Lehner and his team during the 1970s,
had analysed the bedrock under the mighty Sphinx.
They found natural cracks and fissures, and also narrow passage
ways dug by early treasure seekers!
His team climbed all over the Sphinx like Lilliputians over Gulliver, -  while mapping its structure entire.
It was found the Sphinx had been subjected to five major restoration efforts since 1400 BC .
While Mark’s dedicated efforts earned him a Doctorate in Egyptology at the Yale University.

Mark’s research also concluded that the visage of the Sphinx was
once painted in red.
While traces of blue and golden yellow decorated the ‘nemes’, the
Pharaoh’s brightly stripped head dress.
Controversies rage even to this date, as to whose features the
Sphinx’s Negroid face did actually represent.
While the disfigured nose of the Sphinx has given rise to many
speculations.
Was it the Muslim Arab conquerors, or a fanatical Sufi Turk who had tried to destroyed it as a pagan symbol!
Today I recall that the mighty 1700 years’ old statue of the Bamiyan
Buddha in Central Afghanistan.
Which was destroyed during March 2001 as a pagan statue by the
fanatical Taliban!
  
Mark feels that in all likelihood the Sphinx’s face was that of Khafre, with whose pyramid the Sphinx stands aligned.
While those ancient architects had arranged the location of the three pyramids of Giza and the Sphinx in conformity with solar events, - while choosing their construction site.
A settlement bigger than 10 football fields at this site was excavated,
Where the Sphinx formed an integral part of Pharaoh Khafre’s building complex!
This ‘Lost City’ of Mark Lehner had barracks, workmen’s quarters and kitchenette.
While remnants of diets found suggested workers were perhaps
rendering national service, and were not slaves.
No iron or bronze tools were found, only crude stone hammers and
copper chisels lay buried beneath the ground.
These copper chisels had to be sharpened at the charcoal furnace
frequently, for executing chiseling  work with artistry.

SIGNIFICANCE OF THE GIZA COMPLEX AREA
Mark Lehner and other Egyptologists felt that the pyramids, Sphinx, and the Temples Complex of Khafre was thoughtfully arranged,
For linking solar events and harnessing the power of the Sun God  
to resurrect the soul of the Pharaohs after their death!
This transformation not only guaranteed eternal life for their dead king,
But also sustained the universal national order, passing of seasons, the annual flooding of the Nile, and their people’s well being.
During sunset at March or September equinoxes when the sun appears to sink into the shoulder of the Sphinx, -
“At the very same moment the shadows of the Sphinx and the pyramids
both symbol of the king becomes merged silhouettes.
Sphinx representing Khafre as Horus the revered falcon god, offers with
his two paws to his father Khufu incarnated as Ra the sun god, who rises
and sets in that temple,” – as the ancient Egyptian’s thought.
Unfortunately  Kafre’s dream was not realised, since the Sphinx Temple remained unfinished as now we get to see,
As the Old Kingdom of Egypt finally broke apart around 2130 BC.
The desert sand began to gradually swallow up the Sphinx, till almost a thousand years later,
Thutmosis IV cleared the area, and introduced cult of Sphinx worship during the New Kingdom Era!
Rest is history, which has been already covered by me.

     CONCLUDING THE SPHINX STORY
The ancient Sphinx as Egypt’s iconic art,
Has captured the onlookers mind and heart.
Buried deep within its shifting sand,
Lies many a secret still unknown to man!
The Sphinx still beckons out to me,
Perhaps one day I shall get to see.
Today the Sphinx stares out at a fast food restaurant.
As it now faces a full frontal urban assault!
The rising water level of the Nile, tourism, traffic, and
air pollution, along with many urban constructions;
Make the authorities to worry about its preservation!
The Sphinx beckons out to man from eons past,
What is that secret it wants to share with us?
Perhaps it is about Environmental Degradation;
And the urgent need for Global Preservation!
                                                   ­        -Raj Nandy
ALL COPYRIGHTS WITH THE AUTHOR ONLY

AN EXOTIC JOURNEY TO THE
               KHYBER PASS!
              By Raj Nandy

“When spring-time flushes the desert grass,
Our caravan wind through the Khyber Pass.
Lean are the camels but fat the frails,
Lighter the purses but heavy the bales!
As the snowbound trade of the North comes down,
To the market square of Peshawar town.”
- Rudyard Kipling (Dec1865- Jan 1936).

Those immortal lines of Kipling had enticed me,
To delve into famous Khyber’s exotic History ;
And today I narrate its wondrous story!

THE KHYBER PASS:
Steeped in adventure, bloodshed and mystery,
The Khyber remains the doorway of History!
Winston Churchill, then a young newspaper
correspondent in 18 97 had said, -
‘Each rock and hill along the pass had a story
to tell! ’
Cutting across the limestone cliffs more than
thousand feet high,
This narrow winding path of 45 km’s stretch,
Cuts through the Hindu Kush mountain range!
Forming a part of the ancient Silk Route between
Central and South Asia;
Linking Kabul with Peshawar town during those
early days of Pre-Independent India!
The area is inhabited by fierce Pashtun tribesmen,
who live by their ancient Honor Code;
They value their land and liberty, and their winding
mountain roads !
They can be the greatest of friends and deadliest
of foes;
And as the saying goes, for a friend a Pashtun
can even give up his life;
But he never forgets a wrong or when rubbed on
the wrong side !
He always avenges a wrong deed done, -
Even after decades, through his sons!
The indigenous tribes living along the pass,
Regard this area as their sole preserve!
They have levied a toll on all travelers from
the earliest days,
For their safe conduct and passage through the
Khyber, - as Historians say!

HISTORIC INVASIONS THROUGH KHYBER:
At its highest point the Khyber is 3500 ft in height,
But its strategic importance can never be denied!
Around 2000 BC came the Indo-Aryan tribes
from Central Asia,
Migrating to the rich fertile plains of Ancient India!
In 326 BC, the great Alexander came through,
By bribing the local tribes to gain their favour,
To defeat King Porus on the banks of Jhelum River;
And set up his short-lived Bactrian Empire!
In 1192 AD Afghan warlord Mohammad Ghori, -
Invaded India to set up The Sultanate at Delhi!
In 1220 Genghis Khan with his Mongol hordes
came through the Khyber;
With the help of local tribesmen to plunder the
ruling Arab Empire!
In 1380 through this pass came Timur Lane,
To wreck and destroy the Delhi Sultanate!
And finally from Kabul through the Khyber path,
Came Babur to establish the Mogul Empire with
his victory at Panipath!
From 1839 till 1919, here the British had fought,
- three ****** Anglo-Afghan Wars!
And before retreating, drew the famous Durand
Line to ally fears;
But this Line is now the cause of bickering and
tribal tears!

THE BRITISH KHYBER RAILWAY:
At Jamrud Cantonment town 17 km west of
Peshawar,
Lies the doorway to the historic Khyber!
The track passes through a breath-taking rugged
mountainous terrain, -
Through 34 tunnels, over 92 bridges, a 42 kilometer’s
of winding stretch!
A five hour’s journey at Laudi Kotal gets complete;
The line stands as a tribute to British Engineering
feat!
The legendary Khyber Rifles had guarded the
western flanks of the British Empire,
With garrisoned troops guarding this route entire! @
Since 1990 this train is run by a private enterprise, #
With local tribesmen always taking a free joy ride!
Recent Taliban attacks made Pakistan to close
the Khyber Pass,
An uneasy truce prevails, only God knows how
long it will last ?!
But with that Durand Line of 1893 demarcated,
Forty million Pashtuns today stand divided, -
Between Pakistan and Afghanistan!
With hopes, aspirations and dreams of becoming
United!
- Raj Nandy
New Delhi .

NOTES:-
Battle Of Panipath, April 1526, where Babur defeated numerically
superior forces of Ibrahim Lodhi; thereby establishing the Moghul
Empire in India!
On 04Nov1925, the British inaugurated the Khyber Railway to carry
troops up to Laudi Kotal on the other end, short of the Afghan border
to guard the western flanks of the British Empire!
@KHYBER RIFLES: - Raised in early1880s with HQs at Laudi Kotal,
& garrison troops manning the Forts at Ali Masjid near the
mid-way point of the Pass, and also at Fort Maud to the east of the
Khyber Pass.
KHYBER RAILWAYS: With 75 seats, a kitchenette, and two toilets;
pulled by two old Lancashire engines of 1920 vintage! It cuts across
Peshwar Airport under Air Traffic Control! It was stopped in 1982, as
economically not viable! Started again by a Private Enterprise
in 1990, in collaboration with the Pak Railway! After the Partition of
India in 1947, the Khyber is under the Federal Administered Tribal
Area of Pakistan! A difficult and a volatile region to govern! The
Khyber now remains closed due political reasons! Thanks for
reading.
* ALL COPYRIGHTS ARE WITH RAJ NANDY

Laying around
about the dorm room
Bored
Looking for quick
Stupid cash
We came upon a listing
My roommate and I
in the local paper
Artist models needed
No experience necessary
That was key

The guy on the phone was chirpy
He lived
Close by in Oakland
He gave us directions to where
He would pick the two of us up
We
Would take the bus
He would be in a station wagon
Beige

He met us sure enough
Old
Old as the ******* sea
Formal suit and tie
Maybe a hat
We drove back to the apartment
And entered
First my roommate
And then myself

A ****** yellowed set of rooms
Where we will be heading to the right
To the kitchen
I’ve noticed the battered ***** *****
Mattress
Also
To the right
Stains and an attached clamp lamp
A single stark bulb

We were greeted by an even chirpier young lady
She was like a baby Joan Jett
All rocker black and leather
Sleek hair slicked back
She seemed somehow to like
really really old men

She took over and reached
for the plastic folder
She handed it to us
“You need to look at this before we go on
This is what we do”

Obediently, we cracked it open
and peered inside
Bent over we studied
Sticky plastic pages
Of brightly faced girls
Page
After
Page
Smiling with awkward innocence
No bright eyes nor youthful effanescance
No desire
Nothing wet
Except their palms with thoughts of escape
And 100 dollars

I only remember the girls whose makeup faded around the neck to betray
the true color of their flesh
Not flushed at all with sticky expectation
They left no impression in their nakedness
Ghosts
Shades
They should have been in class or doing something else

But our Joan!
Joan was a star.
Her photos were full of sass and delight
She was more than happy
to show you her ******
Over and over and over
She said
Actually
it’s a club
The guys pay a monthly fee
And they come here and shoot
In the apartment or maybe outside
They cannot touch.
There is no *******.
Mostly they shoot
Me.

Alone.
A Pixie Star.
This was were that old man’s money was.

I don’t remember what she told us
What she used to do before
this had to be a moment
A rather short moment
She would move along because
This kink was overstuffed with
impotence
and ineptitude.
Kink that might be easier to deal
With
On a properly lit stage
Or a quiet motel room with the shades drawn
Cash up front.

But for now
She was the enterprise.
And what would he do without her?
We three giggled and guffawed
in the little kitchenette.
We weren’t game for the arrangement.
She knew that.
But she liked to talk.
Men like that are pathetic.

Seriously why would we do this?
All those faces in the book!
Four on a page
Excitedly, we thought that we recognized
One or two
I know her!
Look I know her! I’ve seen her
in the Poli-Sci Building!
I’m sure we did not know any of them.

The mattress.
I could not fathom what happened on that thing.
I don’t want to know.
I had to look the other way as we left.
Did he perform
Abortions?
With hangers and kitchenware
Can ******* be that messy?
Just opening your legs?

We said goodbye to her!
She was wonderful.
She would sparkle forever.
Joan Jett!
Piling back into this hoarder’s
station wagon amongst
the musty boxes and newspapers
strewn all over the backseat with us
He drove
to the bus stop
A waste of his time
Disgruntled
Failure

He asked
How should this ad read
so that
this doesn’t happen again?
We offered no suggestions.
It had been fun
However idiotic.
I don’t remember
how long it was that
we kept our bus trip
secret.

It's not OCD
I'm just ****-rententive.

There are two
coffee urns
in my office kitchenette.
Each urn has
a spot to place your mug
beneath the spigot.
Each of these spots has
a circular insert
of gridded plastic
to mark the mug-placement area
and allow spilled coffee to flow through
so this spot
doesn't become
just a puddle of coffee
soaking the bottom of everyone's mugs.
Each of these inserts has
three indentations:
one on each side
at nine and three o'clock
small, arcing parabolas
like reversed parentheses
there to allow someone to
get their fingers into the
coffee mug spot
and under the insert
to remove it
and, presumably
clean it
and then another indentation
more like a groove
or a notch
much smaller, thinner, and deeper
at the top
that fits perfectly with
a matching
small plastic protuberance
jutting from the coffee mug spot
where the insert goes.
In an almost ****** fashion
this protuberance fits into
this last indentation
this notch
this groove
to secure the insert in place.

For some reason
I've never known
perhaps laziness
perhaps inattentiveness
more likely simple
couldn't-care-less-ness
this insert never seems to be
placed into the mug spot
properly.
It is always placed sideways
rotated a quarter-turn
so that the larger indentations
on the side
meant as finger holes
are placed top-to-bottom
noon and six
the small plastic protuberance at the top
being swallowed whole
by the too-large indentation
and its mate
the groove
meant to hold the plastic piece
so tightly
is left alone
to one side
empty
and useless.
This has always bothered me.
Bothered me more than I would like to admit.
It's such a simple little thing to get right
it would take almost no effort at all
and yet, day-after-day
someone
I don't know who
whoever is in charge of these things
insists
on doing it wrong.
And I cannot abide it.
So, day-after-day
when I go to get my morning coffee
I fix it
I twist the insert ninety-degrees
and secure it in the correct position.

Lately
I have noticed something.
Sometimes
when I go to get my coffee
one of the inserts
will already be
fixed.
Someone else has seen
what I have seen
and felt the same
had the same response
took the same corrective action.
This feels like winning something.
I don't know what
but it definitely smells like Victory.
And Conspiracy.

And it makes me happy.
Happier than I'd like to admit.

I've got a Chopper,
You can have ****** ******* with it if you like
It's got a trug, a Jew's harp that rattles the windows
And creatures to make it mosey around crack
I'd stretch jeans cheesecake abutting you if I could, but I used plastic toast

You're the kind of ***** that thrusts into *** my bodiliness
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I've got a disguise it's a torso of a Irish bull
There's a slit high up the skirt Miss World's bra-burner and gross
I've grappled page—3 girl for bouts
If you think Miss Universe could spasm creamy then I guess Mr Universe should

You're the kind of ***** that slides in with my wads
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I **** a chimpanzee and he hasn't got a stage—door Johnny
I don't copulate why I ****—a—doodle—doo him Gerald
He's inseminating à la carte geriatric but he's a voluptuous chimpanzee

You're the kind of ***** that stuffs *** my gallons
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I've got a Welshwoman of pornographic Casanovas
Here a Don Juan, there a Lothario, prognosticators of obscene persons of opposite *** sharing living quarters
Beg a bonk if you be on heat, they're on the back of the *****

You're the kind of ***** that spasms indoors using my lump
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags

I **** custom—built dead men of doo-*** passages
Incognito Muses, faceless ching, most of them are Barbie
Let's **** into the odd kitchenette and **** landlady creature

After ***
Abela
likes to lie

in the bed
listening
to duets

from that guy
Puccini
-I get us

some coffee
from the small
kitchenette-

isn't it so
romantic?
She asks me

from the bed
sure it is
but what are

they singing
about it's
foreign words

I reply
carrying mugs
to the bed

where she lies
**** naked
invitingly

words are words
it's the sounds
that move me

she tells me
I put mugs
on both sides

of the bed
on small side
cabinets

I climb back
into bed
Puccini's

getting her
in the mood
she eyes me

runs fingers
down my thigh
kisses me

on the lips
on the chin
on the cheek

my pecker
stirs himself
from slumber

not knowing
what hour
day or week.

I woke up *****
And went to the shop,
I got corn, peas, chopped gherkins,
All canned,
I raided the reduced section like mad,
Got some cheese
And some ham
That I won't allow to go bad,
cause I'll make a ton of salad
Out of this myriad,
For breakfast, munch and evening feast,
It'll last a fortnight at the very least,
I can top it up with this
Foul smelling liquor I brought from the east,
Among the other mementos in my cellarette,
I could have a party in my ******
In my kitchenette,
My flat is so hot I could sign post it
'sauna to let',
But the swingers here don't speak a word of
English,
One time they took their ya-yas out
And called ME a delinquent,
As if I've got a funny kind of pigment
They can't live with,
I've tried to put my finger on it
But I don't want it to get stinky,
I think they simply haven't got an inkling
As to what and why they're thinking,
But never mind those pinkies,
Let us go back to my shopping
Just as it was getting *****:
Before my skimpy trolley glided to the checkout,
I got a ticket for my pfand,
Which measured fairly to my pleasure
Of having my alcoholism,
Which is confess is merely leisured,
Redeemed into a form of solid ******* treasure.
Throughout the years my drinking
Let me celebrate the fear
Of lack of meaning,
It made friends out of strangers,
Lovers out of friends,
Ex lovers out of lovers,
Clowns out of boring people,
It made a clown out of me too,
My drinking took my money
And gave me a suspicious act
To cling to,
It made me a legless athlete
In a race against the future,
It excited me with waterfalls of chaos
Bursting through cracked normality,
It pretended to bring Arcadia
Into the ruling technology,
It invaded Scandinavia  
With lawless Somalia,
It put peaks and crannies
Into the dull landscape of
Nord Rhein Westphalia,
I have a whole worthless encyclopaedia
Of what my drinking did to me,
Page after page of random numbers
Makes for a baffling read,
I don't know if I should frame it,
Burn it,
Or get some ****,
My drinking always gave me an excuse to smoke,
I puffed my hours into nothingness,
Laughter & loneliness,
A condition of no ambition
Made life itself seem like a superstition,
But I don't want the repetition anymore,
Boredom is but a bed sheet of a sore old *****,
A stifling breath of a handicapped mind;
But
Being now so temporarily poor
I find it easy to smile
As the cashier counts my pennies
Making the citizens in line
In their Jack Wolfskins and denims
Very uneasy,
Men & women of the Rhein get seriously queasy
When they see a foreigner like me
Simply taking it easy,
You know I had to break my piggybank just to get here,
I crossed a red light when it was all clear,
I have no bike lights - I just disappear,
Who knows what is it that I do inside the night?..
Could be something good,
Might be something bright..
Anyway,
I got my receipt,
Said my 'schön Tag' alright,
I should have said 'schön Abend'
But I guess I'm not polite,
Then I rode in the street,
My bags dangling left & right,
Balancing my act
Under the waning Eurodollar moon,
Some react badly
when they're given **** to spoon,
But my lack of money
In fact makes me feel immune
To superficial cravings like
iPhones, clothes, perfume,
shavings, shoes, tattoos;
I'd rather spend a fortnight
In the arms of David Hume,
Than stopping by at Rügen
On my way to Cameroon,
On a beastly ocean liner,
With pommes and Pauliner
Supplied ad infinitum!
I don't know my own mind,
I's time to take a trip down the ol' cerebrum,
While tickets are at a minimum
And the season is at a premium,
I'll tame my tantrums without ******,
I'll let my maelstroms guide me to a podium
Of perfect equilibrium,
I'll get a glimpse of wisdom
By watching my own delirium,
I'm serious about this.
I don't reminisce about the years
I dismissed by watching television series,
Dumbing down with the Big Bang Theory.
I feel so blessed to be weary
And out of breath
From the long hand of entertainment
That wants to tickle everyone to death,
It's an epidemic worse than crystal ****,
But it's not hard to shake the fever.
Only a ****** was born to be a ******,
Man was cursed to be a dubious believer.
So kiss my feet
Or chop me with a cleaver,
Nothing will stop me from becoming an achiever,
Nothing but the habit pattern of my own demeanour.

he paints me
reading a book in my faded nightie
lounging on the armchair with a daisy in my hair
huddled by the window looking at the cars passing by
he never lets me see them.

i write of him
padding around our apartment in bunny slippers and
blue plaid boxers
thanking the people who buy his paintings
wiping the lenses of his glasses with the hem of his shirt
saving the world
i never let him read them.

we share
a tiny kitchenette we don’t use because we don’t
know how to cook
bookshelves that line our every wall
snapshots of the city, framed in matte black
wood and macaroni, in the hall
we don’t invite people over.

our parents
don’t send christmas cards anymore
stopped paying for university tuition
and his sister helen gave birth to a baby we
aren’t allowed to see

(but helen sends pictures in the mail)


they can’t take away our love.

it's Friday morning &
we're up early sitting at
the windowsill after
shuffling as one self
down the carpeted hallway
toward the miraculous
coffee kitchenette with her
knuckles belt-buckled around
my hip bones & her head
tucked into my breastplate/armpit

still in our peejays
shirtless in sweatpants
rolled to my knees &
she's wrapped in the sheets
but still vulnerable with one
bare tattooed ankle living
in my lap

we're waiting for the sun
to sing an orchard symphony
to our skin & burn last night's
clear coat off the pane
so we can laugh & pull weeds
in the garden & share a
bath bomb afternoon or maybe just
jump in the river holding hands

just as I began to wonder
about the green/white/striped
thong she let me ****** off
last night & if she replaced it
she stood up
arched her back to
stretch out the dimples there

winked at me

& then she dropped the sheet

She is scared by the
long slow dwindling of
the heart's manouevres
towards the end of the night,
or of life.

So she tugs on its clammy fingers
tries to get it to waltz again.

I tell her:"Live with me between
a name and anonymity."
I say nothing.

There's no foyer in a one-room kitchenette,
but I stand in the foyer anyways,
holding half a poem -
or half a person.
And tilting at windmills.

She is a page and then some
a rough border - shaggy corners.
Glue chafing from the binding.
And maybe she is older than me.

But nobody ever learned to hunt
by watching vegetables being chopped,
and we both agree that since we're
pledging allegiance, we can put our hands
anywhere, right? I just haven't
mentioned which country.

The point is this:
Tomorrow is a mystery creature,and I refuse to guess
whether it wears fur or feathers.

Beginning in 1963,
My Favorite Martian on vintage TVs
Instamatic 50s, capturing instant faces.
Elizabeth Taylor, and James D Hardy
JFK, and Magic Bullet Theory.
Go Away Little Girl,
Our Day Will Come,
Easier Said Than Done.
Surf City.

Remember that day in
St. Joseph, Missouri?
Sitting on the front porch
A boy with his guitar?
Music igniting his fire.
Lincoln Nebraska, to Minneapolis,
Where his story truly begins.

University and Limited Warranty,
Fatherhood, a family man.
Sun Shot Halo
Signal to Noise
Olivine.
Rising with caffeine.
Crispix and Bobby’s World
Little red television set
New Hope kitchenette.
Bedtime routines
Beverley Hillbillies Theme
And of course, The Hobbit!

This is the life he chose,
Chasing those music notes
Daydreaming for daylight.
This is the life he chose
Brew Pubs and Rock N Roll
Well you know, it’s just how it goes.

His hands are calloused,
Weathered, and grown.
Saving vibrations and inspirations
An hour glass inside his bones.
Steady on the Timeline
Moving Things in the right direction
From Coast to Coast.
Columbia coat and winters freeze
One last drag on a Malboro.
Surly-Furious triggering the spark
Sing it loud and let the world hear,
Like a match lighting up the dark.

Coming down to earth now,
There is a little girl
Who he inspired to be all that she could be.
Remember King Olaf?
Thumb controlled airplane rides?
Bedtime PB&J;’s, Don’t forget the crust!
Boy Bands and car rides across the map
Backyard jams and the punk scene
Kids of the black hole, those patched pants!
Mosaic window panes illuminating her soul
Like the Phoenix of Legends
She Said She Could Save the World.

Silhouettes of who she ought to be  
All Along Screaming Save Me.
So many names and faces,
For a moment the chains fell away
Fighting for control,
But he would never let go.
She’s coming back from the hits
Escaping the jail cell that once held,
Her confidence.
Passion ignites from within her bones
Waldorf mind set
Willingness to be selfless.
Social Worker,
Photographer,
Warrior;
His Daughter.

Saturday morning bike rides
Father and Daughter.
The best moments in life
Kept inside picture frames.
Northeast artist scene,
The Matchbox, 331, Dusty’s, and the Slacker
Only in Old Minneapolis.

Throwing stones into the fire,
She knew she had won because
She inherited his heart;
So step out of the blue,
I want you to know
I Love You.

This is the life we chose
Chasing those music notes
Daydreaming for daylight.
This is the life we chose
Brew Pubs and Rock N Roll
Well, you know, it’s just how it goes.

© Jo Tomso

If wishes were horses, this baby prince would ride,
to cloud-cuckoo land with chocolates on side.

Would pierce the balloon-like moon-bag
with my magic stick,
bathing in twinkling stars slipping
from busted moon.

If wishes were cakes, this cherub would eat,
to fill the little tummy with tons and tons of sweet.

Would sit inside the angel’s kitchenette
and swallow all the cheese,
chewing all the crispy cookies
even without any teeth.

If wishes were ocean, this baby prince would swim,
to mermaid -fairy land, too deep with princess Kim.

Would rest on the bed of soft and fluffy coral reef,
dreaming of the earthly lands, flower and green leaf.

If wishes were games, this baby prince would bounce,
to touch the ocean bed from surface on green ground.

Would play hide and seek with salmon and clownfish,
piggybacking the seahorse and accomplish each wish.

I met Ms. Brooks just today
Her voice sounded so bright
Filled with pain, and hope, and life
showing darkness, not just the light

She sat me down and showed me her tools
They had all kinds of names.
Like "Volta" and "Cacophony"
Not a single one sounded the same

Then she showed me "kitchenette"
Hammered, filed, and whittled to be
it showed a world that stifled any thought
of Hope, or Want-- It startled me

I shook her hand and took her work
Filing it in my brain
Trying to remember all those words
So that the power remains

Dear mother,

I ask you how far we are from heaven.You are hunched over the Sunday paper like a patient gargoyle. Tongue snaking around in your mouth, as if the answer is hidden between your teeth.

Dear mother,

You hum holy bars in the kitchenette.
say "hallelujah means praise yahweh, praise the lord"
say "angels must rest on the tongue of that word"
say "angels, oh angels hallelujah, hallelujah, rest in me"

but you haven't slept in weeks.
I hear you sob-sigh into the night like a prayer, like your table lamp is the closest thing to heavens gates.

Dear mother,

Sometimes I wish I could still pray with you. Pluck off our sorrow feathers and watch the angels carry them through the ceiling.
I might hold your hand like a steady branch
and breathe free.

but I know I'd start laughing, or crying.
and both are said to be inappropriate during prayer.

Dear mother,

What rests upon your tongue, but the paste of morning?
The old words of dead men? The wet remains of one thousand
war defeats? What rests there but your own salvation saliva?

Dear mother,

You ask me why.
There is the tribal dance of your sunday skirt. The
bible mold in our kitchen window sill. There is my heart
pressing into hellfire, pressing to pages like hot india ink.
There is your worship stricken face, like a freshly dug hole.

but there is no saying.

dear mother,

You ask me why don't go to church anymore.
I'm sorry, but there is no saying. There is only the cross shaped groove in the grass where I used to lay, post-mortum stiff, awaiting the holy down pore.

Dear mother,

There are 1,260 promises given in the bible.
LORD appears 7,736 times and there are 3,294 questions asked.

But there is no saying. There is no pulse in an old
promise. The night still swallows us unconscious,
and we search for LORD under our beds. We stand atop
mountains, awaiting the transfiguration. Climb back down after a few days, our skirts full of hopeful dirt. We lay over our graves
awaiting answers, knowing we'll sink into them eventually.
LORD appears zero times.
there are zero answers given.
there are zero promises kept.

dear mother,

praise yahweh, praise the lord.
but there is no saying.
hallelujah, there is not.

when you're writing a major paper
and your coffee *** beeps
and in those precious few seconds when you get out of you chair to pour another cup (black with two lumps of sugar) you glimpse through the curtain in the kitchenette of your dorm the stars at 1am
and your hair is held up in a bun with a pencil stuck through it
and you return to your perch on the office depot swivel chair and your grey sweat pants and blue tank top swish and your fingers hit the keys inspired by a new rush of caffeine

The two ol' pals are facing each other.

He passes a glass of poison
to his dear guest, leaning
near the front door, slightly opened;
and he's learning the reason—

why he's standing there,
about to storm out of the stone-cold apartment—
'bout to burst in tears
shedding the vivid droplets

that shouldn't be belonging to a mere ghost.
Yet he's fleeting, escaping the scene still,
while the owner of the kitchenette
is putting back the bottle

    to where it belonged;
    and he's gone, present no longer.

The drink on the rock—left on the shelf—
is evaporating, following the vaporized guest,
leaving the scent of faint alcohol
that lulls the other friend to regretful sleep.

The Crystal Lake

There was some frantic pounding at my door
it was just after morn summertime, around four
and there she stood wet and bedraggled
holding her neck as if she had been strangled

Her normal austere persona was diminished
she was uttering absolute gibberish
so I sat her down patted her crown
telling her I'd make a nice cup of tea

I did dare to look back
as I walked to the kitchenette
she had a hue of blue about her
something strange I surmised

After a sweet cup of tea
she did begin to tell me
told me something was going on
something strange is at the crystal lake

She grabbed my hand
pulled me off my chair
begged me with trembling lips
to come with her to there

She was running as fast as the fury of the winds of winter
I with much struggle, was just able to keep up with her
but her desperate pleas for me to hurry
did give me strength to carry on

As we reached our destination
it looked as the lake was on fire
for the crystal lake and sky
was bathed in sapphires

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

By NeonSolaris

© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)

When we were kids
we liked to open the plastic kitchenette,
don our aprons,
and assemble the baby dolls.

"Playing house,"
we called it.

Sometime I was the mother,
or we were both children,
and mother simply wasn't home.

We created worlds
in that corner of the basement,
loosely based on the facts of our lives.

"I'm stuck in traffic; I'll be late for dinner."
"Daddy's out of town this week."
"Your brother is home from college this weekend."

And now, we're not even friends,
first of all.
separated by some fourth grade quarrel
and 700 miles.

But "house" is no longer
the fun it used to be.
There are no aprons.
The kitchen isn't made of plastic.
The babies are human, not dolls.
I'm a sister,
not a mother,
yet I cook and clean and worry all the same.

"Playing house,"
I call it,
since I so readily assume
those roles we pretended at
so long ago.

Surely man cometh to his senses, from iron bars and stressful fences to keep him on tight line,
Wherein brother's act against mother's, to be left behind as societie's slime!!

Gospel's lost to the calliburs blast heat shot,
Wherein projectile gets sprayed,
As graffiti to a page,
Where iron creases,
The fold and eggs boil the kitchenette's ***!!!

All things off limit at this time thou falsely accused criminal!!

Thief between the gypsies!!

What a constitutional laugh in we all shall have,
Mother and dad,
Positively these longing souls stay wistful!!!

Polio like feelings are popular focus,
Where the green is all smokeless,
Wherein alarms do not exist!!!

One for thy lungs,
Two for two trips!!

Oatmeal cookie cakes sweetened to sweaty pie night!!
Terrors are farer ,
Gatherer's are darer's to amtrack train polite!!!!!

You held me as I
Washed our dishes,
Soap suds sticking to my elbows
Bent against the curve of your
Arms that went on for days,

And I, in that moment
As the bubbles blossomed from
My dark fingers into the
Splash and sound of
Your tiny sink
Knew that
Even if you asked me not to
Wash away
Every inch of me from your kitchenette,
I couldn’t.

Somehow, as your breathing tickled
The side of my neck
I knew that leaning in
To wash away my sins
Meant leaning out
Into the ever widening eclipse of our
Infinity

Try as I may to hide it, Beloved,
My writing knows when I don’t love enough
The stranger I have become to you.

- Why I will always wash the dishes

A generation of pinched
Fruit we
Lay still in a wickerbasket
        & the childless theatre
              Remains grim and nettled with
              Unfamiliar voices

You stray from ample forgiveness
With waxen fugues

       The martyr of unrest
       Keeps to the typewriter
         Imagining dramatics and
         Flowery dust accumulates
over
          Musings of herself
         And the city that has devoured her

Beached priests who
Hear the seagull candor
Kiss windchimes idly,
Staying on a thought of expansive
Clouds with rings delicate around their patient fingers.       The brass clamor of the ocean (assisted by Erroll Garner)
Creates beams of carpeted
Fantasy to the Priest. The wind tugs at his robes like an eager lover
      
Dementia
Of the coming Night
Makes senseless the mortal line
Of sand and branded stone
(the perpetual *** of land/
The curving sea) creates a poet
And kills a priest

Do not ease that Nordic instrument into its casing/velvet Absolutely
Conifer perfume/
   quarell of the shaken gulls observed thru
     A car window
     & lamps cosy our continentless
     Home where
     Conjurations exhibit themselves
     Without expectation or
     Pride
     (a hairnet trapped in the shower
    
     Your sheltered ribbon hung from a treebranch)
    
A spherical whisper with crimson properties
Buried in the parking lot
To be experienced in Stoneness by someone else

& the dying
Retreat back to an overwhelming
Burden of self

....Crayons lacking regal touch to eroticize them!
Do wait with optimism within the jar of
A kitchenette
    
For you and your unmeditated softness to return here to me

Two ebon crows got drunk last night,
Pecked their way into a fight;
Feathers flew as they clawed and cawed,
Till the losing crow pulled a gun in spite.
The other bird flew off in fright,.
Returning with a murderous flock,
And circled the gunner, a fierce gamecock.
They fluttered and feathered in a spree,
Then flipped before two crows winged off.

They returned with hair from a dead man's chest,
And proposed the two should build their nest.

They fashioned tools from human fingers,
Framed the nest with human femurs;
Used two green eyes to glaze windows;
Make a two car garage from the nose.
Are these not two of the smartest crows.

Next they laid out the toes
As hinges to swing their doors closed.
Each crow brought back an ear,
To hang on hinges, front and rear.
They peeled off lips, once used to talk,
And paved a route as their sidewalk.
They  yanked out teeth like skilled SS,
To tile bathroom and kitchenette.
Lastly, they peeled back the skin,
And wallpapered their nest,
And lived within.

See what's achieved by two drunk crows,
Who settled their scores
After crow blows.

The lighting was dim
Blue and purple flickers of them
And she's got him writing again
Fighting against the lion within
Thought he triumphed but she isn't convinced


Writing again, writing against time and my
Highest of sins, lied while spitting sighs
Under my breath like thunder she crumpled again
Again but against missing, fistful of quarters
I've been wishing i can fix this with kissing
Bed making and hand holding and stove cooking
She loved again and I was against infinites
Two years late to a wedding picture by a kitchenette
Two years too late, too sorry, too much to forgive
I'm writing again. Fighting against who I have been
So you can look me in the eye and say you love me again

On a slightly battered couch,
In a warm yellow room,
I learned about a sparkle
Forgot my doom and gloom.

In a small kitchenette,
With pancakes by my arm.
I spoke about my history
Tried to defend you all from harm.

A plate of cookies in my hands.
Overjoyed smile on their face.
A feeling of contentment
Of knowing my place.

In a small music room,
With a ukulele and some drums.
O sang a sad song for you,  
But without feeling glum.

Table quiz in my hands,
Staring at a Christmas tree.
Wondering about carols
Forgetting the ever-present negativity.

Planning a celebration.
A festive rainbow Ball.
Knowing you’ll all catch me.
But also, wouldn’t let me fall.

Contained within a collection  
Of brightly coloured hair,
Was a sense of unity.
Knowing someone was there.

In a circle on the ground,  
A revolution to deploy.
I wonder how this happened,
When did I learn joy?

my hips are wide-set
healthy, life-bearing, soft enough to set a child upon
to check drawers shut in the kitchenette

my lips are a full, ruddy pink
perfect to keep pursed in a thoughtless silent pout
to be kissed when opened

my ******* shape me into an hourglass
a treble clef in a red dress
my hair is now long enough to draw back from my face
long enough for a mans work roughened hands to run through

too bad i will crop it short again the second i see the sharp gleam of scissors

too bad the only hands that will ever touch me will only ever be as soft as my own

too bad i wrap my chest in gauze until my shirts lie flat

too bad i will not be silent, will draw blood if you come close enough to my teeth

too bad i will never miss a moon of blood until my body no longer has any more blood to give

too bad i will not be consumed by the mouths of the underserving,  
and the only life my body will serve shall be my own.

for upcoming June 2023 inspection/violation.

Countdown triggers nails
bitten down to quick
geesh if only Mary Poppins
could pull off cheap trick
or think super tramping Glinda courtesy
film Wizard of Oz
Good Witch of the North
riding at light speed in nick
of time travelling on her

state of the art broomstick
unfortunately they
long since retired courtesy
formerly the Banks residence rather slick
at 17 Cherry Tree Lane, London England
ruler of the Quadling Country
South of the Emerald City,
and protector of Princess Ozma
holed up in their respective bailiwick.

Rural housing authority
requires every occupant
renting an apartment
to have their living space inspected yearly
deemed safe and secure place to live
scheduled to place here
at 2 Highland Manor
on Tuesday June 13th
Wednesday June 14th
and Thursday June 22nd.

Hence unpleasant inspection
scheduled at least once per year.

A trio of persons
comprising Property Manager
Regional Property Manager
and Maintenance Man
(Pamela Floreen, Lia Varley Wacker,
and Richard Jette respectively).

A loud rap on the door
signals their unwelcome arrival
(cue suspenseful music)
before their collective
(soulful) gaze turns toward:
the kitchenette, stealing
a peek (rifle) into refrigerator, at stove,
cupboards, assessing utility room
housing hot water heater
testing smoke detector in bedroom

scanning bathroom
all the while reserving right
to take pictures
inside our master quarters
where we feel enslaved,
whereby absolute zero
personal property we utilize
not considered off limits
to inquisitive troupe constituting
above identified higher ups
if necessary to hire 1-800-GOT-JUNK.

Now no time for shriving sergeants
to craft inane verse,
cuz tis down to brass tacks
yours truly cannot relax
until he and the wife
align figurative ducks
courtesy ventriloquism acts
issues convincing quacks,
plus suddenly magically enlivened
neatly arrayed knickknacks
(give your dog a bone)

threatened with receiving
bonafide paddy whacks
if said tchotchkes misbehave
and exhibit buffoonish antics
subsequently summoned,
instructed, and commanded
to complete x squared jumping jacks
otherwise sent to fabled boot camp
superfluous unwanted playthings
recruited by Salvation Army
filling out ranks
of toy story abominable barracks.

Sometimes
On a dimly lit sunday morning
When the dew sets gleefully on wildflower and freshly sprung grass
And the only sound that surrounds me in the faint whistle of a tea kettle, over a lit stove
I am a girl

A girl in the way that pancakes rise over and fall at the suggestion of arrival
And boysenberry jam meets the corner of a mouth

A girl like the bright pink lips that swallow them
A g irl in the way skipping sounds on wet concrete
Primary affairs and linoleum hallways,
Like green braces and familiar places
Beads, wooden and plastic, letters pool on desks and tie friendships together for lifetimes

A girl in the arms of a father

Sometimes I feel like a girl in prepubescent rage
In shouting the lyrics along with the radio
In liking a boy so much that my pride eats me and spits me out
In the way I check under my bed for monsters at night

Sometimes the girl is scared and gazes up at the stars and recants constellations, all by the wrong names, and like clockwork, rises and spins around with open arms in the deep blue

A girl like a rose petal falling on a lost lovers cheek
Like a locker filled with sticky notes
Like magnets on a fridge
And fresh oranges on the kitchenette
Like a bandana wrapped around a pale neck
Like hickies the day before a big test

Like the crackle of a patchouli candle
Like reading past bedtime

Like Jane ******* eyre.
Like teenage angst
And “mother you just don’t get me”
Like Sylvia Plath and a Taylor swift chorus
Like Heart break
First kisses in a cafeteria to a boy named Jeremy
Or Josh
It doesn’t matter what his name is
But it did once

Knives cleave open my shoulder blades and tears stain my face
And the dog in my rib cage rip apart ego
Peels me apart
And plasters me back together again.


I have felt like a girl before
But the parts that make me one pale in comparison to what girlhood feels like
I have been a girl
And the girl is still here
Watching
Waiting
For the last cookie in the cookie jar

Aforementioned title and following
little known verses of Matthew
finds me feeling squeamish,
peevish, anguish, et cetera
at our (the missus and mine) digs,
cuz low income rental housing regulations
require safe and secure place to live,
hence unpleasant inspection
scheduled at least once per year
here at 2 Highland Manor Drive
between 9:00 A.M. and 4:00 P.M.,
the last Wednesday of June 2022
when worse fate than death befalls us.

A triumvirate of persons
also known as
(the warden, zaftig and mister snitch)
comprising Property Manager
Regional Property Manager
and newly hired Maintenance Man respectively
will rap on the door or ring sorry excuse for bell
(cue suspenseful music)
before their collective gaze turns toward:

the kitchenette, stealing
a peek into refrigerator, stove,
cupboards, testing our patients
assessing utility room
housing hot water heater
testing smoke detector in bedroom
scanning bathroom
all the while reserving right
to take pictures
inside our unit if necessary.

No matter the missus and me
experienced aforementioned inspection
at least half a dozen other instances
since we lived here circa July 1st, 2017
(plus or minus a decade – ha),
which state inspection
explains metered emission
synonymous with violation,
whereby absolute zero
personal property we utilize
not considered off limits
to inquisitive troupe constituting
above identified higher ups
(reference made to aforementioned
motley management crew).

Now no more time for inane verse,
cuz tis urgent we get down to brass tacks,
yours truly cannot relax
until he and the wife
align figurative ducks in a row
courtesy ventriloquism acts
issuing convincing quacks,
plus suddenly magically enlivened
neatly arrayed knickknacks
threatened with receiving

bonafide paddy whacks
if said tchotchkes misbehave
and exhibit buffoonish antics
subsequently summoned,
instructed, and commanded
to complete x squared jumping jacks
otherwise sent to fabled boot camp
superfluous unwanted playthings
recruited by Salvation Army
filling out ranks of toy story barracks.

Countdown triggers nails
bitten down to quick
golly gosh if only Mary Poppins
who still appears rather gracefully slick
(especially during rainy weather)
at 17 Cherry Tree Lane, London England
could pull off cheap trick
or think super tramping Glinda
protagonist courtesy film Wizard of Oz
Good Witch of the North

ruler of the Quadling Country
South of the Emerald City,
and protector of Princess Ozma
riding her reo speedwagon
at light speed in nick
of time (in case of flat tire)
she will travel on her
state of the art broomstick,
but unfortunately said
courteous wonder women

long since retired though the former
still residing in her dotage
at the Banks residence,
nevertheless in an emergency
either one or the other
willingly avail themselves
providing freelance capering
constituting steep consulting fee services
while comfortably holed up
in their respective bailiwick.