We two boys together clinging,
One the other never leaving,
Up and down the roads going—North and South excursions making,
Power enjoying—elbows stretching—fingers clutching,
Arm’d and fearless—eating, drinking, sleeping, loving,
No law less than ourselves owning—sailing, soldiering, thieving, threatening,
Misers, menials, priests alarming—air breathing, water drinking, on the turf or the sea-beach dancing,
Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statutes mocking, feebleness chasing,
Fulfilling our foray.

Martin may have been
******* by the Trump,

no matter what words
he strings together
the other side
holds trumps,

& Martin's only human,
but the other side
seem of baser
matter,
fabricated out of
cast-offs & junkmetal,
empty gourds
of echoing nothingness,
aching voids,
fathomless chasms,

with truncheoned guardians,
subservient menials,
boot-licking lackeys,
fawning & scraping
Goebbel-like go-fers,

Trump might have ******* him
cos Martin is plumb
tuckered & its
only day 30,

but of course
Martin has the luxury
of not being from
South of the Border,
a very poor man,
a junked-up hillbilly man,
a desperate man.

Martin can give in
to his so-heavy fatigue,
that could be
his choice,
& he's lucky
that way.

******* I'm so tired
of this idiocy.

Herein lies the cycle of this existence. Replete with everyday banalities - placid and meaningless - the menials of survival give away almost suddenly, and I find myself plunged into the depths of an unperturbed silence... where a voice within resounds the Om. A rage drives me to divest all falsifications.. those sensuous pleasures and miserable burdens, insecurities and frustrations.. and all that exists/acts in a true sense of transience. I feel calm again - cleansed and breathless on the shores of this Reality. But alas!, the Silence fades.. slowly and steadily the noises of the world begin to seep in, like the first rays of sunshine after a long wintrous slumber.
Crests and troughs, this life of mine. A reckless indifference grips my heart; I exist, unbeknown of whether I am a benign Observer or the perverse Experiment, or evenly both.

I don't know what to do!
I'm losing her!
The young father cried to his parents.
What can I do?!

His mother spoke menials
Stupid remark of a sheltered woman
And a barely assertive lifestyle.

But the grand of fathers sat and listened.
He got up to leave.

Dad, please. What do I do?

I don't know. I couldn't even stop my own son from killing himself.
Don't ask me.

Too hot. Tousled paper-thin music. 23. Nothing else matters but the conscious: psychic, physical — I arrive, take space, therefore I am. Nothing hurts deeper. Stays. Dagger to gut. Always, the dogs are, always. Much harder for the soul to plead in front of inviting cathedrals. Fire in this side of the Earth. Running. Out of time. Running out of time.
                     Crossing criss-cross of cars.
    Curious cat gets run over, bones break,
    brains splatter, blood dries faster than
    water.
          Flattened by things: menials, stereo cool. Subcompact breathing space. Clinging on to dangerous playthings is
recherché to the average. Death is nice.
Twice of it, better. Breathe fast. Live faster—
Short moments believable. 23 ~ 55. An equivocal calling to mind. Gamblers here
have no parlay. It's senselessness against
another throb of it. Nothing accrues for
greater victories. Slam the ride, deface
the labyrinth. Take it. Ride fast. Do it slow. Pace is everything. The tempo is infinite,
dance wears away like chip on the old floor. Out of cigarettes.
         It is splendid enough to remember
the horses that jumped past
fences of pain than having to mount
   them in all separate mornings,    severances, all that.  There's no magic
in farewell. There's no lie in that.

Sifting through the mangled mundaneness
Of routine and pitiful patterns,
I sought to retain only a divine diversion
To mark the end of a day
Marred by the devoid bleakness of black and white.

In a silent, sun-lit room,
Canvasses monitored the seismic activity
Of boiling multi-colour hot springs of paint
Neatly circled across a white rectangular mountain plain,
Inviting the weary of foot and heart to bathe in its magic mud.

Blue button shirts now rapidly rent
And grey shorts peeled with impatience,
Leaping, I laughed,
Splashing into the mirth of self-expression’s liberty,
Cindering all thoughts of menials awaiting me at the mountain’s foot.

No towel in sight –
Only a pan of brackish water and a protruded paintbrush.
Clenched with a dripping crimson hand, the brush met the canvas
Like a tangoist, the paint nearly scalding the board.
Hopping from pool to pool, tango practice concluded with the abstract.