Little bright pitta
I throw to the bright sky
Look for your dim lights

Holden Caulfield
2. That movie that I saw last weekend that I thought you would like
3. The mix tapes you made me. I still listen to them in my car
4. The way I dance and wondering if you would like it if you saw me.
5. The Kooks and how you hate them.
6. Hospice
7. Late nights sleeping alone and knowing you're awake, but oh so silent.
8. Wondering if you're thinking about me too
9. The poems you wrote me. Your handwriting is classy.
10. The picture of Hilary Duff on my desk reminding me to be good
11. My bed and how you used to be there.
12. My friends and how you used to be one of them
13. Uptown
14. My ticklish spots that no longer get touched
15. My cat... he misses you.
16. Speaking Spanish and how you used to correct it, and sometimes be impressed
17. Wearing bows in my hair. How you used to love them.
18. The clothes I bought at that thrift store yesterday. I wonder if you'd like them.
19. Mehermahermahermaherm
20. Listening to Bright Eyes.
21. Listening to the sound of loneliness.
22. Coffee and how you say "Americano" with a roll of the tongue.
23. The last bit in my tea and how it's "too sweet to swallow."
24. Sitting close on the couch. Your hand stroking mine. Sneaking a kiss on the cheek.
25. Missing busses and missing you.
26. How I used to cheer you up.
27. The stars and sheep and roses.
28. Seth Rogan
29. Meditating and how I can't do it with you constantly clogging up my brain.
30. Laughing
31. I never learned to salsa dance with you and your brutally honest hips.
32. Carrot Creme Brulee
33. Hand dance duets
34. The empty spaces between my fingers
35. Your grey corduroy pants are my favorite.
36. When you called me your coriño.
37. How you would have scoffed at me copying and pasting an "ñ".
38. Attempting to show you music you would like.
39. Failing at showing you music you like.
40. Sending you hearts.
41. Arching my back.
42. Eating ice cream and how I'm better when it's here.
43. How I'm better when you're here.
44. How Cory is better when Topanga is there.
45. Italian Night Clubs
46. You and Me and Everyone We Know
47. Tyronne Street
48. Ice Land
49. Getting lost.
50. Drunken parties and thrashing fists.
51. Second chances
52. Being half of something.
53. Wearing your cardigan
54. Long embraces and never wanting to move.
55. Doing my homework with you sitting next to me. Not letting you read over my shoulder
56. Teaching you about the body.
57. Your smile, and how you give a little chuckle every time I see it.
58. How we used to laugh about nothing.
59. Really bad cookies.
60. Butter face.
61. Jealousy
62. Hating modernized Shakespeare
63. Confessions
64. Embarrassed faces buried in pillows
65. Incredulous about me hating Elvis
66. Miles ******* Davis
67. Singing softly to the radio
68. Playing the piano. Singing for you when you're not around.
69. Wondering if you're reading this right now.
70. Hoping that you've gotten this far down the list.
71. Be the Pitta to my Vata
72. Kate Upton has saggy *****.
73. I just want to make spaghetti with you.
74. How you hate ellipsis
75. Wondering whether or not I spelled that correctly because I know you would judge.
77. Leaving tearful voice-mails
78. John Lennon and Yoko Ono's Rolling Stone cover
79. Looking at art, wishing I was Monet.
80. My sundress on the floor.
81. Not seeing that new movie in theaters (the one that won all those Oscars) because I only want to see it with you.
82. Getting angry when Kacie B. didn't get the rose on the Bachelor and knowing you're angry too because Courtney ***** as a person.
83. I'm an ugly crier.
84. Hitting bread pans
85. Your green plaid jacket
86. Vulgarity
87. Insecurity
88. "Back and forth. Forever."
89. How that one song reminds you of me and I still don't know why.
90. How you deserve the best
91. It makes me sad that I'm at number 91 and you're still nowhere to be found.
92. Going to ballet class with the anticipation of seeing you afterward.
93. You asking me how ballet was, whether you were interested or not.
94. whispers "Let me be your hero."
95. Never seeing your fur vest.
96. Holding hands when we shouldn't have.
97. Velvet leggings
98. The last wonder of the world.
99. I fear that I will forget what your face looks like.
100. Reaching one-hundred with so much more to say.

In the forever winter landscape
Live gentle waddling penguins
While fierce forces conspire
All life brushed away
By unforgiving weather
But with an icy resolve
They all push back
Not with a Roar
But a little pitta patta
Of jolly dancing feet
As they happily bubble along  
With defiant hearts whispering
To the weather
With a nonchalance  
Disarming the Gods
   "we don't care"
With a silky soft defiant Roar
They potter on with their day
In a light hearted way  

Traveling through their life
They feel bound by limitation
Limbs retreating,, wings shrinking
Escaping from the weather
As the world places them
In a straight jacket
But they fluff out their
Love filled chests
A dash of yellow
On their cheek
Proclaiming I love who I am
As they slowly press into snow
Heart blazing with white fires
Busily they chatter
Nodding and bowing
To each other

Life pushes newly weds apart
As her ladyship is forced to abandon
Her man to the long winter's night
Left holding the egg
She looks back with a longing glance
Her heart torn
But in the blistering chill winds
And freezing cold air
A cool clarity is born
Where all passions are left
Under sheets of steely ice
And soft blankets of snow
Her task very clear
She pushes on

A trust between partners feels itself called on
Now fierce winds blow through
And into her face
As they now feel so far apart
She stops to take one last look back
And feels an impenetrable bond
Forged in their hearts
As her beak circles the sky
It is as though an arc
Of light is made
A silver connection
Binding them together
As they feel somewhere
In the eternal they remain holding hands

The aspiring father left
Holding precious egg tenderly
Left standing on cold ice
In blistering winds
Four months there left balancing
Treasure softly on his feet
Through the winter's night
Angry winds betrayed by the sun
Sting with a viper's vengeance
As temperatures plummet
-70 and dropping  
Cooperating together they huddle
For their very survival
Perfectly dressed in Tuxedos
Black like death standing on their back
White in front for the devotion
They show us in life
Reliant on each other
They spiral around together
And say
   "together, together we can do it"
As they silently sit through
The long winter's night
Letting go of their resistance
They release a godlike persistence

Over the horizon mothers appear bobbing
Like bubbles of thought bursting
From the flat transcendence
Fulfilled wishes appearing
New mothers pulled forward
By tickles of joy in their hearts
Leaping forward on their bellies
As they collapse in
Boundless devotion
Their hearts drawn forward
Skating along on their Love
They glide.................................
           and slides..................................
On their own pouring devotion...................
Effortless devotion..................................................
They almost fly on their
Unlimited Love

Effortless embracing tasks
Supporting new life
They are filled with the
Ecstasy of fruitful service
Later adults return to water
Float with a grace
Of a dancing ballerina  
As though fuelled by rocket fuel
They leave bubbles like smoke

As we delve into these
Vast fields of devotion
And see these jolly beings
Successfully spilling through
The dark winter's night
As they spread new life
I feel like the great God above
Totally humbled And can only
Kneel and Bow
To the beautiful penguin

Please do not ring
For your eyes sting
As I see the many failures
The shadows in your eyes
For I seek to hide
From the many mirrors
Of this world
Please pass me by
Dismiss me
For your presence hurts
My very wishes
Splitting my heart in two
And the blessing of others
Chisel my brow
Aged by my own hope

I star gaze into
The world of relating
Never has a breath of love
Felt so far away
But there is a beauty
In the midnight black
As I gazeee
The love between stars
Dances and plays
But as day turns to night
I switch of the light
Feeling the gravity
Of this earth
My heart seeks
An unconscious sleep
Where my head rests
In the soil of my mind

For I am a solitary saxophonist
Who echos his song across
The still silent lake at night
Stirring the leaves of the willow trees
Who stretch over the moon lite lake
Slowly I tread
Into the dark lake at night
The murky waters of my mind
Descending the waters of fright
Where devils and demons
Lurk out of sight
Where I seek to meet
The dwellers of the deep
To hear their hidden screams
Releasing the sounds
Of the forbidden wounds
That haunt the twilight night

As the world seeks to draw
Me into their petty quarrels
Their childish fights
As they play
Pitta patta , pitta patta
Bakers man
So that they may find their hands
I bath in the warmth of God
Protected by the many showers
Of many disappointments
That are sprinkled on many a love
As I seek a deeper silence
Where the world flees from
I seek to find a solace
As I bring much company
To the many painful parts
Searching to cushion them
With a gentle love
Harvested from the oceanic realms
One we all may find
If we simply care to look

Taking breath to feel
The great aloneness
Can be a nervous task
But our many demons and angels
Will all be found
Standing close so very close
Hand in hand cheek to cheek
One the doctor ,one patient
So finding the treasures of our deep
Will bring you a great new sweep
As we wipe my feet clean
Before I enter another soul

Venice - California - **** me, i'm supposed to write what i can't write -
dog eat dog's equivalent of the offspring - cooler shaker -
i'm ******... i can't strip dance a sentence together -
**** me, the personal hatches to be held within - blues sways -
i can't write out the personal, it's too personal....
the sacredness of the moment as in:
cleaning the house, having conversation
with dad, the BBQ... mum's away tending to her mom -
insignificant parts - dog eat dog's one day -
cruising down with a Brooklyn groove -
you cool? i'm cool. you cool? n'ah man!
see you two Februaries later.
the **** comes later.... i write poetry, i have nothing to lose...
what i have to lose is the need for ink
and the celluloid ear to listen in on me -
if i hadn't i'd be writing the bestsellers for
insurance... i don't write bestsellers...
i write kites... i write what i write...
your capitalistic teams will hardly mind the craft...
poetry is otherwise known as
white boy's rap - less Korean gangsta style -
dog eats a dog to make a hotdog -
buns ahoy! too much personal **** man -
i cleaned the house today,
pretended to be a psychiatrist with my father -
this ain't no Hispanic gimmick -
i cleaned the house... ****'s too personal -
mind your tight Kenyan *** with that curl of lip
with the agony of pride with what a half-Kenyan president
would ignite - a Jew keeps a hammock
and a sense of investment - i know the personal -
bullock Pendulum smack via the potato sack -
prizes like at the Ferris Wheel - please spare me the
Israeli ******* with Arabs included -
please... please! you're no more part of Europe than
the Jihad coupe readied to make us
artistically bankrupt - Jew, you have your land!
tend to your ******* olives
                              and slouch on pitta bread!
let us be! don't keep inviting your repressive
justice agents into the enigma - we fostered Jesus
for 2,000 years! leave us be! take him back!
consolidate your confusion with an Egyptian Jew,
tend to the Egyptian library exposed -
we have no part in it... you make us take part
in it... we'll make Arabs into Nazis, if they
aren't already suggested.
you don't want what we will answer with when
Islam crosses the mark of consistent attack!
you don't want it! wear your kippah *******
symbolism when you either think or don't!
i don't like barbarians anyway,
the niqab shroud of cut-off ******* is enough
to match-up a ******* kippah as imitated
by the saint's bald-patch... leave! go home!
so why is it that home is so violent at your rekindled
reception? the Irish are clearly the first to ridicule,
but as James Joyce said: no Irishman will read me
prior to reading Yeats... the rhapsody of ridicule
will be worth a market stall of pears in
hope for aid to make anything less than poaching
them in pickled speech at stipend of acid talk...
too much personal speech... let's just say i
imitated my neighbour's dog bark by night...
while in daylight hours we talked about her job
and the closure of Broadmoor.

I see no hope
no mirage to console
no stars to guide
no rainbow to comfort

moving in the valley
valley of grief
streams of tears
dewdrops of sweat
forward and forward
passage not ending
up above
skies shooting down the umbrella of dark clouds

at an unknown fraction of moment
i hear the thunder and flashes of lightning
to ignite hope again
for the showers of joy & peace
oh! that mirth is my dream
and i drenched in that dream

thrusting, hoping, living
that it ill be true one day


© 2014 Pitta S Dev

Each day, he'd sit
quietly at his desk,
sometimes,
for hours on end,
waiting for his
muse to return.

It was almost as if,
he were in some type
of trance,seemingly flirting
with the lingering shadows
of his melancholy, which often
haunted him and even taunted
him at times.

For they knew,
of all the things
in this wretched world,
his greatest desire was to write

In fact,
all he'd ever wanted
was to be a writer

Unable to embrace
the stifling stillness
often found in the echoes
of one's solitude,
he eagerly awaited the call
from the silent keys of his typewriter
sitting idly on his desk

A mere relic, collecting dust
in the shadows of the morning Sun

Oh, how he longed for them
to summon his wanting fingers
once more

How he longed to lovingly caress
each and every key

Joyously filling the quiet pockets
of air with the sweet and haunting melody of their timeless pitta patter

Oh, how he longed...
to make them sing again.

All rights reserved
Copyright©2017

glistening pavements and snow-topped trees surround
the December chill hangs perpetually in the air
but my head is on fire with thoughts of you and our Summer love

wrap me in layers of burning desire
pull me closer towards your fiery breath
surround me with your pitta-filled arms
my body is bubbling with thoughts of love on a Summer's day

all around me i hear the bones and teeth of a Winter's day trembling and chattering
i walk among them, naked and unbound
for i am floating in the lava of this Summer love

upper tier of crosswords,
mental rubric,

      s                        a

         t             h            e
    
      r            t     

                      d             e
      
  
       shattered: quasi germanica

lexicon...

                  atom...

warm ***** and the chilled chaser...
or no chaser, hence
***** chilled to the consistency
of gome syrop...
liquidated clear liquorice...

Pazura (actor)
     und Warszawa (a capital
of a European nation...

      dziw... bo bez sfobody,
między... to eN...

ha ha ha ha...

e e Cummings conjuring
up the cOncEPt of orthography
in the native readers...
without exploring diacritical
mark application,
which, orthography rests upon...

    co ma gzyms do
       krawędzi
kiedy pietruszka
        o, zajob...
i ta świcąca trójci Pitta...
nie brody warta,
tylko tego, bolka jolka...
greckiego, fagasa...
    
a piernik do wiatraka?
ujebany, Sergio Pansa...

...to guwno, tzn. prl'u:
co czyni papa new guinea
pierdolonym 'omikiem?

suka morda brud...

    te kurwa... z... kreską!

bilingualist contra the polyglot,
UN of the latter,  
trenches and no man's land
of the former...

       6 Napoleons made
a dozen private Ryans...
      at Jena...
  'alf  frisky Burgundian...
'alf celibate Schwabian...

crosswords and the thesaurus
avenue...
   poetry...
    and the robert frost analogy...
Dante and Virgil...
Homer's solo
with a blind man' stick,
or rather...
Homer and Milton...
sitting in a tree...

      either a tongue bound
to the breath of Horace...
or the leash
      and warden skit...
     of the Minotaur...

somehow...
etymology always was,
and always will be,
the pedantic, bookish
version of history...

      so much so,
that etymology bypasses
the ridiculousness of
Darwinsm, of form, of Plato...

aeons pass before ape
differentiates
the vowel from the consonant
or the onomatopoeia
from the mimic from
the noun...

            then comes the continuum
crushing all genesis
theists, as well as all genesis
atheists...
      love, love... and you typical
Sunday afternoon...
        
slang as an anti-etymology...
           likewise the ape...
ape being slang, for man...
   slang as noun as colloquial,
rather than as proverbial..
staccato...
                  and all sort of
mannerismsms of the,
"less informed"...
  
                            only England scorns
bilingualism it would seem...
unless it has no post-colonial
uncle toms to boast of...

P.T.S.D. of the 1946 Kielce Pogrom...
ever so shocking,  
unlike the biblical credo:
go forth and multiply...
      in any other instances,
less memorable, collateral...
guess not enough cousin fucky-fucky...
1 Chew worth 1000 Chings...
      if not more...
Chew has a name, Ching has a number...
like the good ol' days...
bribing the ß-mann (eszettmann)
for Milka bishop choc bars.

It is amazing what drink
will do a fella.

I shared a flat in SW6 2HL
London with an eccentric.

His dog was a Kerry Blue
called ****.

Chris Beresford it was, at
16 Britannia Road Fulham.

The lady next door felt sorry
for ****, she gave him bones.

Meaty ones after the Sunday
roast, we used to take it off him.

I often threw **** a tea bag and
he'd chomp it, thinking it was meat.

Chris never knew that, I got a great
laugh out of it, told all the lads.

I put Marijuana in meat ***** and
gave them to ****.

Chris said that he went funny on
Putney Bridge, he lay down.

He brought him home on the bus
number 22, to the Broadway.

The White Hart was my local, never
missed a day or night for seven years.

I was a right ******* eejit, what a waste
of a life and the women were mad for me.

Perdio the Greek used to give Chris old
stale Pitta's, we always had plenty.

Sometimes there was green fluffy stuff
on them, Chris said they were Irish.

I called them Flat Bread, Chris was posh,
he said they were unevened.

They're ****** flat Chris, like pancakes,
there is nottin uneven about them.

I wonder sometimes of this eccentricity
I always go out for its pitta passing over me
my heart does leap when I smell it, such a wonder
that rain does come this sweet way I get fonder
this is what nature to me means you see

It's my safe zone, I have seen the wizard of Oz
with that cutie Toto that relentless yapping dog
seen the wicked witch with tap water and even rain
sliver and meltdown down to her dungeon drains
so I go out and about without a doubt

Nothing is so refreshing as the English summer rains
it cools my brow and does extinguish the fire in my brain
I am sure I would sizzle if you did touch me
probably snap crackle and pop
liken to seedlings seeking soft fertile soil

I wish in my next life I could come back as a tree
but I am sure that is not to be, oh woe is me
I would have loved to have roots deep within the soil
and on sunny days feel the magnitude of my age
lend shade to those that could never live to my age

My limbs would stretch when such abundant rains did come
my leaves caressed by the sweet downpour and more
but at this moment I am almost human in body and soul
I know I have many more changes and lives to go
but to be a tree in the rain I could be so


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

I wonder sometimes of this eccentricity
I always go out for its pitta passing over me
my heart does leap when I smell it, such a wonder
that rain does come this sweet way I get fonder
this is what nature to me means you see

It's my safe zone, I have seen the wizard of Oz
with that cutie Toto that relentless yapping dog
seen the wicked witch with tap water and even rain
sliver and meltdown down to her dungeon drains
so I go out and about without a doubt

Nothing is so refreshing as the English summer rains
it cools my brow and does extinguish the fire in my brain
I am sure I would sizzle if you did touch me
probably snap crackle and pop
liken to seedlings seeking soft fertile soil

I wish in my next life I could come back as a tree
but I am sure that is not to be, oh woe is me
I would have loved to have roots deep within the soil
and on sunny days feel the magnitude of my age
lend shade to those that could never live to my age

My limbs would stretch when such abundant rains did come
my leaves caressed by the sweet downpour and more
but at this moment I am almost human in body and soul
I know I have many more changes and lives to go
but to be a tree in the rain I could be so


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris